Our last night in Europe 
You stayed in the hotel room 
While I went out for a look 

The woman was involved with how she looked.
The man was busy writing.

Compositions in harmony

the sunlight rods over the Commuter’s Spa

bluejay

It is here but the colors
have stayed away. Guests
to no one—they pout inside

The face of the gypsy watching the bird gun firing into the colony of seals; but it was filled with blanks;
The face of the old knoll watching his hills grow up before him;
The face of the New England fruit juice proprietor watching his whole supplies being overturned by a herd of wild bulls;

a one that
you and comb

                   a was what it to ran here in that was a

The old woman who sees him sleeps in that house
By his boots she knows him, his long white coat

Where there’s no quarrel, but there’s fate
A scream unhurried of music’s choice

The bright young bones growing turn like green tendrils

But men married in New York or else women
Dominate the pavement from where they stand,